


Crosstalk

by starlabsforever



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen, Present Tense, Stream of Consciousness, cw for invasive thoughts and mildly disturbing morals, hi there it's been a while, idk what this even is, inner darkness, teeny tiny killervibe cause this is me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlabsforever/pseuds/starlabsforever
Summary: Cisco can feel the darkness inside of him, coursing and pulsing every minute. He doesn't know if he can fight back. He doesn't really want to.





	Crosstalk

_I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you._ -T.S. Eliot

Invasive thoughts. He learned all about them in grief group. They’re those horrible thoughts that pop up in your brain, like malware windows, sudden and harsh and loud. Like when you’re on top of a tall building, and you think that you could just jump, or the urge to kick a puppy right in its adorable face. Most people can simply shake them away with a reasonable thought, like, _“I don’t want to do that, the hell.”_. Click “x” on the malware window and it disappears into oblivion.

Cisco isn’t most people.

And unlike malware, there isn’t any software he can install to make them stay away. He’s been used to having them since Dante died, and usually he can shove them away. But lately, something’s shifted, and now instead of going away, they nibble at the nape of his neck, like a headache he just can’t shake. They throb in his temples, making his heart pound and his breathing heavy. And they’re unrelenting.

The thoughts are different than they used to be, too. It’s not that they’re more violent than before, but they’re darker, and he feels them in every inch of his body. Each time Barry walks past him, he can _feel_ the speedster’s weakness, and the dark voices in his brain call out to him. _You can take his speed. You can destroy everything he is. You can kill him._

 _No,_ he’ll shoot back, and that used to be good enough. But now, the dark little voices are starting to sound reasonable. He's starting to agree with them.

_He took your brother away from you. He made you what you are. He plays with time like he is God. He takes and he takes and he takes, and it’s about time he’s had something taken from him._

These are the thoughts that leave him stiff in every bone.

He envies Caitlin for her ability to divide into two separate selves. There is Caitlin, warm and radiant and fierce. She is sunlight and coffee and summer rain and everything good. And then there’s Killer Frost. She is bitter and caustic and harsh and so, so cold. She also holds the entirety of their powers to herself. The cold power, that is. Caitlin possesses an entirely different set of powers. They are her empathy and her loyalty and her quick wit and her spitfire intellect, and Killer Frost’s ice storms can’t hold a candle to these. But the meta powers, the thing that runs through your blood and is different than everything else in your body and lets you know, in the very cells of your being, that you are abnormal, those are Killer Frost’s alone. Even for all the turmoil and consternation that this has caused her, Caitlin can step away from her powers, and they do not conflict with the things that make her Caitlin.

But for Cisco, the dark matter in his body has changed the way he sees and feels the world. He can feel every world, every timeline, every possibility vibrating in his skin. It ebbs and flows, twisting and arcing around him as he moves through time and space. It is attractive because it does not appeal to some dark person lingering inside of him- it calls to who he is. He feels this energy pulsing on the surface of his skin, and it is begging to be _used._ What he is sensing is a blank space, a chasm full of unapplied energy that is just crying out to be created into  _something._ In this way, it appeals to what he knows to be the most fundamental truth about himself, which is that he is a creator. It's how he finds peace and purpose. He feels this energy coursing through him, and what he feels is a world of creation. It is alive, and he feels it every minute. It’s exhilarating to feel the universe in its most primitive form literally pulsing beneath your fingertips.

But they also invite the invasive thoughts, tenfold. When he touches another person, he can instantly feel their heart beating, their lungs breathing, every vital vibration of their body. And he knows, without having to think, exactly what frequencies would shatter them.

He tries to push them away, but they are so persistent. And “I don’t want to do that” usually doesn’t work, because sometimes it isn’t even true.

Like when Harry grabs him by his shoulders, growling something so close to his face that he can smell what the other man had for breakfast. Cisco’s chest is filled with a tight panicky feeling, particularly over his heart. The panicky feeling only subsides when he focuses on the vibrations of Harry’s heart and his lungs and his brain, coursing through the older man’s arms and joining at Cisco’s fingertips. _One blast and you could end him,_ the voices whisper, and in those moments, feeling angry and helpless and humiliated, he doesn’t even want to tell them no.

Or when Barry runs his mouth, floating another half-cocked and arrogant plan and refusing to listen to reason. His shoulder brushes Cisco’s when he storms out, and the frantic pulsing of the speedster’s heart is rapid enough for Cisco to feel it distinctly. _Just do it,_ the voices chant, and he could.

It’s not that he wants to hurt anyone. He’s not a violent person. It’s just that after all of these years of being a slave to time and space, after being screwed by the multiverse time and again, the idea of being able to contort it with his fingertips is _enticing._ He is tired of being helpless to his circumstances, sick of being the universe’s bitch. He is hungry for control.

The pure energy buzzing around him calls to him to create, and the darkness pulsing inside of him beckons him to destroy. What he's realizing, though, is that the two are not as mutually exclusive as they would appear. In order to renew, something must be destroyed. In order to create, something must be taken. That is a role that some denominations might claim belong only to the gods. Maybe that is what he has to become.

He could do it. He feels the power in his fingertips. It courses and pulses and sometimes, when he can’t quite keep his anger in check, he feels it spark. Sometimes the others notice, too. Sometimes it’s a verbal outburst, or sometimes he slams a door or punches a wall, because all that anger wants to go somewhere and he’s trying his hardest to keep it from leaving his body in waves of destructive energy. He’s caught them staring at him- looking confused and a little nervous. When it’s Barry or Harry or Ralph, he _loves_ it, and it only feeds the dark, violent vibrations inside of him. In those moments he can feel himself, so close to tripping over the edge and everything he's been holding back for so long would come loose. But when it’s Iris, looking quizzical and worried, or Joe, looking concerned, or Caitlin, looking at him all too keenly as if she knows exactly what he’s craving because she’s felt it too-

The vibrations fizzle to a standstill. At least, for a short while, but they reignite inside of him again. They always do.

That’s why even being alive is a constant push-and-pull for Cisco. He feels himself on the edge of the universe, being inexplicably pulled towards something that is alive and pulsing and so, so attractive. This is the side that calls to him, and its song is relentless.

But on the other side, there’s them. The family that he made for himself, his team. There are days that, despite all the pain in their history, he wouldn’t trade them for the world. There are feelings that rise inside of him, causing a stronger dopamine rush than any amphetamine could, and make him think in that moment that there’s no where else in the universe he would rather be than there, with them.

And then there’s her.

Sunlight and coffee and rain and everything good.

Sometimes he thinks she’s the only reason he hasn’t fallen off the world yet. Some days she is. He wonders what could happen if she wasn’t there anymore. He keeps her close so no-one has to find out.

That doesn’t cease the dark voices within him from whispering and chanting and singing, filling every pathway in his brain with their sick singsong. They are constant and sudden at the same time, always in the background but able to careen into his mind out of nowhere.

He could try to push them away if he wanted to, but it wouldn’t last long, and he’s tired.

Through their darkness and their tugging, the voices speak a distinct truth:

_This is who you are. This is who you are meant to become._

He's not going to argue. He can't argue with the truth he feels in every cell of him. He doesn't think he wants to.


End file.
